SYDNEY DOBELL

She sang her song, she kept her kine,

She sat beneath the thorn, When Andrew Keith of Ravelston

Rode thro' the Monday morn.

His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring,

His belted jewels shine; O Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line !

Year after year, where Andrew came, Comes evening down the glade,

And still there sits a moonshine ghost Where sat the sunshine maid.

Her misty hair is faint and fair, She keeps the shadowy kine ;

Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line !

1 lay my hand upon the stile, The stile is lone and cold,

The burnie that goes babbling by Says naught that can be told.

Yet, stranger ! here, from year to year,

She keeps her shadowy kine ; O Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line !

Step out three steps, where Andrew stood- Why blanch thy cheeks for fear?

The ancient stile is not alone, 'Tis not the burn I hear!

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